The Other Me
by America La
Summary: Charles Darnay is coming to after being druged, how will he and his wife react to the news of their friend's death? A Tale of Two Cities Fanfiction.


The carriage bounced heavily around him, walls seeming to churn like butter, melting into one another, swirling into a mass of shadows that clouded his dark irises from the rest of the world. He heard voices. One voice in particular. Such a sweet gentle voice, it's simple existence was his ambrosia, his love, his cure for the corruption in which he had so unwillingly been born into. The neighing of horses could be heard, a gentle wind mixing with the sweet voices sounding almost like the footsteps of a man to be sent to the sweet saint that the French adored with their tainted hearts.

He opened his lips to speak but only found his mouth to be dry and cracked from hours of hanging open, a soft moan only escaping their grasp that sounded like the cries of a man whose existence was slowly fading to the black. He longed to move his arms, to rub his dark brown head which throbbed with such intensity he would almost have suspected that a block of wood had come hurtling from the sky to cause a rather unfortunate demise. He did have enough enemies for such a scenario to play out without a single hitch. Another gasp was interrupted from his lips by the voice of two men conversing.

" 'Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!' " A large voice echoed into the coach, causing the young man's head to throb more than it once previously had, red splotches appearing before his softly lifting lids in the dismal cabin.

" 'What is it?'" the familiar voice called out to the large one, faded wooden planks of the carriage creaking as he positioned himself to glance out the window.

The words vanished into a red haze as the two conversed, a single face rose from the mist, a smile on his face. The face that looked like a sickly mirror of his own, Dark hair pulled back into an identical style behind the handsome features of his face, outfit of similar style and taste. In face the only thing that was indeed different between the twinly men was a certain swagger amidst the second and the slowly fading scent of liquor that clung to his breath mixed with coffee that he had more recently taken a rather strong liking to.

The identical man smiled and placed a strong hand on the young man's shoulder with such confidence that he couldn't help but feel a prang of jealousy, a feeling he was certainly not used too. He attempted to speak but like before no a single lone note left his lips causing the other man to let out a soft but bitter laugh before simply uttering like a the chop of a axe " 'Fifty-two.'"

He was up in a start, heart racing, fearful fire burning off the last of the drugs that had once coursed through his veins on a paralyzing infection. His lips parted into a scratchy voice as desperation gripped his body, his arms suddenly able to move in fear, his mind suddenly able to function in a blind curiosity that caused his very blood to boil. _He couldn't have done it. No, he wouldn't, that would be insanity. _I _am the number fifty-two._ His hand wrapped around the sheet of paper that was held deep inside of his pale hand, clenched, slowly crumpling the letter into a ball of half legible scribble. "Où est ce salaud de Carton?" He hissed under his dry breath, moving a piece of rather greasy hair out of his flushed face "Où est cet imbécile qui me drogué? Où est-il?" He continued slamming his fists against the side of the coach, bits of blood coating his hands slowly dripping down into the letter.

The woman who stat across from him did nothing but shake her head, holding her blonde locks in her shaking thin hands, as though she had never witnessed such corruption before, as though she were witnessing the bloody end for all that she loved. He longed to go over and comfort her, to place a single hand upon her frail arm, for her lovely head to place itself against his chest as he whispered sweet nothings into her lovely ear, but all he could do was yell. All he could do was wish to tear that damned fool to pieces, he had to stop him. He couldn't have let that idiot do such a thing.

"That…that Carton drugged me!" he growled across the carriage at his wife, once again slamming his fist against the wall, more blood leaking against his skin, almost as a form of repayment for other blood which had so willingly been spared for his own, his breath was heavy in his chest, fire racing through his heart burning off the last of the sedatives. "Where is that man?" He hissed, face covered in shadows that were so reminiscent of the other him that the fearful blonde could do nothing but weep into her already tear stained palms. Oh how he wished he could comfort her as she seemed to flop affront of his down shadowed eyes.

She said nothing, shaking her red splotched face, unruly hair flying to her face, sticking to the salt that lay against her normally perfectly composed cheeks. A singled shaking hand reached out and touched his own, the warmth causing him to draw back. He didn't deserve such warmth, after what he had placed his lovely wife through in the past year and three pathetic months he didn't deserve to be within forty feet of the lovely creature. He didn't deserve such a comfort, and it was not given, for the shaking hand was only interested in the blood stained letter, smudged beyond legibility in most places. Her blue eyes skimming the shaking lines written in the shadows by the very man in which it had been pried from, but such words where from the soul of another man, her lips forming into words that he could not read, nor would ever wish too but to die of a broken heart. It was almost too much for his wounded soul as her face brimmed with fresh tears as she let out a cry that was akin to a baby bird that had fallen from its protective nest.

Gently, he placed his own trembling hand upon her tear slatted one, lowering the parchment from her face to reveal the beauty beneath, forcing a fake smile upon his face as the 'wind rushed after them, the clouds flew after them, and the moon plunged after them, the whole night in a wild pursuit of them; but, so far they were pursued by nothing else' nothing but the letter that his wife held in her loosening hands. "Come now, what has that silly man put into your head?" He said with a fake laugh "Now where, is Carton?"

"Dead."

Number Fifty-two was the head of another man, the head of a savior, the head of a lover, the head of a man who had only just learned the joys of love through death as he smiled to his own death. He looked at his wife in shock; tears slowly filtered behind his shadowed eyes, refusing to raise his head into the light to allow his all loving other to see into their secret weakness.

"Come now," He murmured, taking her head to his shoulder, his bloody hands stroking her once pure blonde locks slowly like a mother to a child "we shall get through this, we will get through this, Lucie dearest."

"Yes, of course, Sydney."

***Authors notes***

Hello there, I hope you enjoyed this little bit of fan fiction, it being my first for any sort of Charles Dickens novel and such. I'm considering making it into a full series, so please review and tell me what you think! Now for some translations:

"dark brown head which throbbed with such intensity he would almost have suspected that a block of wood had come hurtling from the sky to cause a rather unfortunate demise. He did have enough enemies for such a scenario to play out without a single hitch."- A reference to the play Cyrano de Bergerac where the main character dies from a block of wood dropped by one of his many enemies.

" 'Où est ce salaud de Carton?'"- Where is that bastard Carton?

" 'Où est cet imbécile qui me drogué? Où est-il?'"- Where is that idiot who drugged me? Where is he?


End file.
